


i'm a lionheart

by queenofglass



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofglass/pseuds/queenofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt for the <a href="http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/">asoiafkinkmeme</a>.<br/>Trystane and Myrcella spend the night together before she is sent back to King's Landing to be dealt with by newly-crowned Dany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm a lionheart

The raven is not unexpected. _Dark wings, dark words._

Her uncle Tyrion used to say such things. Her childhood had been sunny; darkness was meant for wet nurses and bedtime stories.

Arianne rips open the letter, but Myrcella knows what it will say. It will summon her to King's Landing to answer for her family's crimes, for her failed attempt to wear the crown, for being the Kingslayer's daughter. The dragon queen will not allow lions to roam her country.

 _Daenerys Targaryen wants her vengeance_ , Myrcella thinks. _And she will take it, with fire and blood._

“This is a royal command. I’m . . . I’m afraid there’s no way to avoid this, my lady. She says she will burn Dorne if we protect you.”

"Then you mustn’t," Myrcella nods. It’s what her father— _Robert_ , she corrects herself— would have said. What he would have done. She hasn’t been truly safe here since the Darkstar slashed her face. This, it seems, has been inevitable. House Lannister rose by the dragon’s will and will fall in the same stroke.

"I'll leave at first light. No more blood will be shed for me."

Arianne’s smile is sad. “Are you not afraid, my little lioness?”

"A Lannister always pays her debts."

The sun is warm on her skin, but she shivers nonetheless. A guard—not Arys, sweet Arys Oakheart is six years dead—follows her automatically. His distance is respectful, but she craves human contact. If she truly is to die, the last thing she wants is space.

She draws the veil more tightly around her face. There is nowhere to run, no way out of this trap. The queen executed every Lannister except Tyrion, who now rules as her Hand. Myrcella wonders if he fought against her death warrant or if he hates her as much as he hated her mother.

Her apartments are comfortable and familiar. Even with her family’s harsh fall from grace, the Martells have always treated her kindly. It makes her ache to think of leaving this behind.

Myrcella dismisses the guard for the night and picks up her embroidery. There are piles of swaddling clothes for children she will never have, sewn with suns and pierced spears. Expressionless, she throws all of them into the fire. There’s nothing left to do but wait.

He doesn’t take long. The sound of running feet is obscene in the silence, and her heart sinks, breaks, and mends at the thought of seeing him.

“Are you _mad?_ ”

Trystane bursts through the door in a rage, the letter crumpled in his fist. In the last three years, he’s grown like a weed, widened, becoming broad and strong. It takes less than four strides for him to reach her, but he’s no less angry.

“Why, Cella, _why_ did you agree to go?”

“Dorne will burn if I don’t,” she says quietly.

His palms are pressed flat on the arms of her chair, and he’s so close that she can see he hasn’t shaved, count four freckles on his nose, spot a single strand of gray hair. His voice quavers.

“You won’t come back.”

“No.”

“They’ll call you a traitor.”

“I am.”

“No,” he snaps. “You’re a Martell of Dorne.”

She laughs. “We haven’t said those words, Trys. And even if we had, I am still a Lannister of the Rock. She didn’t let Tommen live, and he was only a child.”

“Don’t go,” he whispers. “Please, Cella, don’t leave me.”

“I’m not afraid,” Myrcella says softly, brushing her fingertips across his throat. She presses a kiss there, tasting the smooth, tan skin. “I’m a lioness.”

Trystane groans. “ _My_ lioness.”

“If I’m yours, do what you will,” she smiles. “Unless you want the Stranger to have my maidenhead.”

“No,” he growls, though his hand is gentle, tilting her chin upward.

Myrcella leads him to the bed, staying close. Privately, she thanks the Dornishwomen for their silks, because they are so easy to remove. She’s allowed Trystane to move them aside before, and it was like being in a fever—everything became hazy. He used his fingers first, then his mouth, and her cries were loud and brazen.

There’s a new desperation to his caresses now. The sands in the hourglass are against them, but she’s determined to make her last night in Dorne a memory she can cherish to the grave.

Once, Myrcella arranges her hair so it covers her ear, but he pins the arm above her head. She shivers. “Don’t hide your scar, Cella. It shows how brave you are.”

Trystane is slow at first, tender, but she wants it to _hurt_ , because she’s hurt and heartbroken to leave him forever. It does in the beginning, despite what ministrations he did beforehand, but he’s patient with her and she’s grateful. _It is a rare thing in this world_ , she muses, _to find love in an arranged marriage_. And though it will never come to fruition, she thanks the Seven for sending Trystane to her, if only for a short time.

“Six-and-ten is too young,” he murmurs, fastening a chain around her neck. A bronze sun rests between her breasts, a reminder of where her heart truly lies. “You haven’t lived.”

“No, but I’ll die with grace.”

They barely sleep that night, too fearful of lost time. She can’t get enough of him, the way he sounds, the way he tastes. But dawn does come, and she tells him that she must get ready, that must gather her belongings. He leaves reluctantly, eyes brimming, but she turns away. She can’t cry, because she won’t stop, and a lioness of the Rock does _not_ cry.

Arianne, Quentyn, Ellaria Sand, the Sand Snakes, and most of the Dornish court is there to see her off. Her mother would have been proud of her composure, though inside, she wants to scream. They have become the family she’s always wanted, and leaving them now is almost too painful to bear.

Trystane kisses her, and this farewell hurts more than the night before. She stares at him greedily, trying to memorize the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes become deep and fathomless.

“We’ll meet again,” she whispers as he helps her onto one of the horses. “One day.”

“I await it,” he says thickly. “Goodbye, Cella.”

The litter rides to Sunspear, where a ship awaits them in the harbor. Myrcella is a model prisoner, never straying far, and for that she is not chained. Even without the irons, she already feels caged, a maimed lion ripe for slaughter.

She can smell King’s Landing before she sees it. From the outside, it appears nothing has changed. The stench is the same, along with the port. Her heart twists, remembering her last day in the city—the day Tyrion shipped her off to Dorne. She had been so young then, so afraid. Returning to this place had been a child’s dream. Now, it is a nightmare.

Myrcella is allowed two days of rest before she is called before the queen. Her silks and veils are too sheer for court; instead, she chooses a bloodred gown. She will be punished for this impertinence, surely, but she is a lioness. If she truly is to die, she will die as a Lannister.

She wears her hair in a plait, allowing her face to be clear, and knows Trys would approve.

“Lady Myrcella Hill of Casterly Rock,” the herald announces, and she scowls. She may be a bastard, her House disgraced, but her family once commanded _respect._

Daenerys Targaryen is beautiful, with silver hair and smooth, ivory skin. Her eyes are violet, cold, narrowed. “My lady.”

Myrcella sweeps into a low curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“Do you know why you are summoned before me today?”

Her eyes flicker to Tyrion, who stands below the throne. His scars stretch across his face, ugly and gruesome, but in that moment, she feels a powerful kinship with him. She is scarred too, after all.

“For being a Lannister, I believe,” she smiles, then adds, “Your Grace.”

“You take after your father. He was arrogant before his queen.”

“You take after your father, too.”

A dark flush blooms on the queen’s cheeks, and one lady gasps. Myrcella is startled to realize that it is Sansa Stark, still living, still beautiful. She doesn’t believe the girl had any hand in her brother’s death, but it’s a shock to see her here in the dragon’s den.

“Your crime is the attempted seizure of my throne. There is only sentence for usurpers.”

Exile won’t do; she could easily return to Westeros. Holy orders are a sweet gesture, but who’s to say she won’t flee the silent sisters, and gather armies against the crown? Death is the only way to silence pretenders.

She looks at Tyrion again, but he makes no move to defend her. She can’t fault him for that; he’s had so few opportunities in his life, being constantly overshadowed by her parents.

Her trial is set for the following day, but every person present knows it is a farce. She will die tomorrow, by the sword or the fire, depending on the offense. It’s obvious that she will face the dragons, and be made an example of.

The cell she’s given is surprisingly comfortable for a condemned traitor. She sits before the fire, wondering if dragonfire will kill her faster than the average flame.

It’s past midnight when a septa is admitted into the room.

“Are you here to hear my last prayers?”

“If you wish, my lady."

Myrcella begins with Trystane, praying for his safety, happiness, and a long life. The septa's blue eyes fill for a moment, and then it's quite clear.

"Tyene," she hisses. "I thought you left King's Landing!"

"I planned to, silly girl," Tyene clucks, glancing at the door. "But I heard the queen's command . . . then I had to stay. Oh, Myrcella, if you give me an hour, I can free you. We can go home to Dorne together."

Myrcella shakes her head. "I can't. Dorne will burn if I flee, and I won't allow thousands to die for me. I'm not my mother."

"No, but you are her daughter," Tyene sighs. "I carry messages from friends. Read them, and may the Seven bless you, child."

The first belongs to Sansa Stark, her handwriting elegant but rushed. Both she and Tyrion, in the second letter, beg her forgiveness. The queen made it plain to both of them that fraternizing with traitors will not be permitted. Myrcella admires their bravery, for letters can be intercepted if they fall into the wrong hands.

The last message is from Trystane, which she tucks in the folds of her dress the following morning. She can feel his words during the trial, feel the bronze sun cool against her skin.

"I condemn you before gods and men, for betraying the crown in acts of vile treason. Have you final words, my lady?"

Myrcella finds the queen's gaze and stares back, unflinching. "Hear me roar."

The dragon pit looms before her. Myrcella can feel the heat as she ascends the stairs, and her eyes sting from the smoke. She keeps her head held high, knowing Cersei would have done the same. The Faith forced her to walk naked through the streets of King's Landing, but her pride never faltered.

They will say that Myrcella looked very much like her mother that day, except the scar. They will say that she went to her death bravely, a lioness through and through. Her last words were the words of her House.

But deep in the dragon pit, Myrcella feels more like a Martell.

 _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken,_ she thinks, watching the flames looming before her. _A Martell at last._


End file.
